Taking my hand again, he led me toward the newer exhibits, expertly weaving through each of the rooms like he really had been here many, many times before. He knew the place by heart.
Finally, we reached a room filled with huge canvases with swathes of colors. Some faded from one color to another while others were blocks of colors that seemed to exist independent of the rest of the canvas. They were so simple, but the simplicity in and of itself was oddly intriguing, and I found myself moving a little closer, taking in the brushstrokes and the sheer craftsmanship.
“A favorite of yours?” I asked.
“Rothko. He’s a classic.”
I nodded. “I can see why. His stuff is…”
“Incredible,” he filled in, and no part of me wanted to argue. “You like art,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I do. It was my major in college.”
“College wasn’t on your résumé,” he said, his head cocked in my direction.
“No, well…it wouldn’t be. Didn’t graduate.” I shrugged.
“Why not?” he asked.
I glanced at him from over my shoulder, lifting one eyebrow. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Why won’t you tell me for real why you love this place so much?”
I was going on pure instinct, but something told me there was more to his affinity for art than he was letting on.
He hedged again and then glanced around, almost as if he was making sure nobody could overhear us. “I used to come here a lot growing up.”
I didn’t say anything and waited for the rest. With the look he had on his face—full of uncertainty totally at odds with his usual personality—I wasn’t about to press him. Not right then, anyway.
“So, uh, I grew up in the system. Not many people know that,” he added, his gaze locked on the painting in front of us. “Some houses weren’t so bad, but a lot of my foster parents just had me around for the government check. During the day, I was left to my own devices, and more often than not, I found myself here.”
My heart squeezed, and I had to fight the desire to close the gap between us and squeeze him until the sadness in his eyes faded away.
“Why here?” I asked softly.
“Because it was free. For school-age kids back then, anyway. I used to look at the paintings and imagine a day when I could have my own house to put up something so beautiful. Or, to be completely honest, to have enough money to spend it on something as frivolous as art. Even if it was a print from a big box store, that was more money than I ever had back then. But, you know, as time went on, I got a little more enterprising. There was an architecture exhibit, and I thought, well, I couldn’t paint, but I knew how to use a hammer and nails.”
“So you did,” I said, fighting a mix of sad tears and a deep, soul-aching pride in him and the man he’d become, despite such terrible odds.
He nodded. “So that’s what I did. When I was eighteen, I moved to the shittiest area I could find outside the city and used all my saved money to buy the worst house in town. I flipped it and used the money to buy two more houses. Then four.”
“Then you built an empire.”
He grinned. “Empire is one way of putting it.”
“I didn’t know. They should put you in some sort of magazine. You could inspire kids like you.”
His face darkened. “It’s not exactly something I like to talk about. Those are the highlights, but growing up in the foster care system, at least back then, isn’t something I care to think about or relive. Your turn now.”
I wanted to ask him why, to understand the ripple of pain that passed over his expression, but the tone of his voice was clear—the time for discussion was over. Now it was my turn to spill.
“I didn’t go to college right away. When I got out of high school, I traveled around to find myself.”
“Ah, one of those girls.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Yep, that’s me.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, when I got home, I decided the place for me to go was school. It was always something that had mattered to me. I was a straight-A student—”
“I had no doubt,” he said.
“And I had a knack for learning, so I threw myself in. Then, you know, I met this guy, and he wanted to run away with me, so I dropped out and he…dropped me.” Shame bubbled beneath the surface, and I tried to push it aside. “I still decided to run away. Just, this time, it was by myself.”
“And that’s how you ended up here,” he concluded.
“That’s it in a nutshell.” I nodded.
“Could have been worse,” he said, and though I knew this was his way of trying to soothe me, I couldn’t help but poke at his logic.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Well, you could have married him or had his baby and then had him walk away. That would’ve been worse.”
“I guess so, yeah.” I shrugged.
“Or worse, you could have never met me.” The mischievous glint returned to his eyes, and I gave him a playful punch on the arm before taking his hand in mine again. I let out a breath, relieved to have things on a lighter note but also somehow soothed that we’d shared some of our darkest times with one another. I finally was starting to feel like I was seeing the whole man instead of just one piece of him. And I liked it.
A lot.
“Come on, Mr. Modesty. Show me your other favorites. I’m interested now.”
Next, he took me to another room filled with paintings of single words like love, honesty, and respect. He studied each of them closely, mentioning the font and pointing out the brush strokes. In the next room, he showed me things he’d noticed about oil painting, explained the difference between the mediums, and then took me to the room full of old sixties’ vacuum cleaners and wildly shaped coffee tables.
“I can see why you’d find this place inspiring. I want to write the great American novel just walking around this place,” I said.
“Me too. Bad news is that I’m a terrible writer.” He took me by the crook of the arm and led me back out to the vendors outside, stopping to grab me a cupcake from one of them before we leaned back on the steps and watched the hordes of people coming and going.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” I said when I’d finished my cupcake that I hadn’t even realized I was hungry for.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“If you had such a terrible time in the system, why did you stay in New York?”
“Would you believe me if I told you it was because this is the center of the world and I needed to be part of it?”
“Not for a second,” I shot back.
“You know me well,” he laughed. “I’ll warn you, though, it’s not a happy ending.”
“Don’t you end up meeting me?”
He rolled his eyes. “I was dating a girl who went to Columbia, and she got pregnant. I moved back here to be with her and the baby, and I bought an apartment building so she could keep going to school.”
“Oh,” I said, my mind spinning.
“She was nice enough, but she miscarried in the third month, and then we decided it wasn’t worth staying together if we’d only been doing it for the baby.”
“That’s devastating. You must have been heartbroken.”
“Yes and no.” He pursed his lips and then looked me deep in the eyes. “Would you think I was a bad person if I told you that I was sad for her but a tiny part of me was relieved? Not that I would’ve ever wished for it, but I didn’t love that girl and I don’t want children. I did it because it was the right thing to do, of course. But ever since then, I’ve been careful to make sure there was never a repeat.”
“You’re not a bad person,” I said, but my heart gave a little squeeze.
“Thanks. I guess if you’ve lived through everything I have—if you saw the pressures and the stresses of people trying to raise children—it’s just not for me.”
I took a deep breath. “I can understand that.”
We spent the rest of the day roaming the city, and as much as I loved his company, a little part of the joy inside me had faded. Both at the thought of a young Jackson, alone and confused and unloved—and at the realization that he didn’t want kids.